


Symptoms

by leo_lullaby



Series: Brie's Late Night Sam Drabbles [4]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Big Brother Dean, Demon Dean, Dissociation, Heed the warnings friends, Hurt Sam Winchester, Hurt/Comfort, Mark of Cain, No Wincest, Other, Panic Attacks, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, References to Depression, Sam Winchester and Mental Health Issues, Self-Hatred, Some s10 SPOILERS, Sorry Not Sorry, Suicidal Sam, Triggers, kind of, potentially
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-07-27
Updated: 2016-08-21
Packaged: 2018-07-27 02:04:36
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 13,165
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7599163
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/leo_lullaby/pseuds/leo_lullaby
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>*SOME S10 SPOILERS* Canon up through end of ep 10.3 (Soul Survivor), then I go a litte AU with it, for kicks. I cured Dean faster; sue me.<br/>Starts a few weeks after Sam worked relentlessly to get Dean back to being Dean, completely. No more demon. No more mark. Cas has returned to the mess that is heaven to try and help damage control. It is just the two brothers in the bunker, together again. Both are human, and both are just tired.<br/>Sam remembers a lot about what happened, and with this one last challenge of completely re-humanizing his brother complete, he has little left to do but think and remember. Dean is worried, which should not be news based on the way the two of them have grown up so co-dependently, but it has been so long since he looked after his little brother. Since he cared.</p><p>OR, in my opinion, there is no way you can bounce back that fast from having your big brother/primary caretaker try to kill you.</p><p>Ch.3 (epilogue) is up!</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Diagnosis

**Author's Note:**

> No, I do not own SPN in any way. And no, I do not personally have PTSD, so I apologize now if I offend someone somehow. But in my defense, I have seen/cared for many victims as well as helped out a cousin who did serve and I am also a psych major, so I tried my bestest to do my homework.

The DSM has more than one version and stands for the Diagnostic and Specific Manual of Mental Disorders. Dean was surprised to see some old DSM's in the library of the bunker; especially in such an environment he and his rag-tag family lived and worked in. With the supernatural world hitting and haunting them on the daily, it intrigued him that someone along the way decided to bring psychology into this. Then again... maybe it was not that surprising after all. It was his original intent when he started researching, anyhow.

No matter what other people may think, Dean is in fact _not_ a stupid individual. Sure, he may play it up sometimes to get himself into certain situations, but underneath all the charming and crappy pick-up lines, he has a real mind in his head. Sam may be the better researcher of the two, but Dean can still hold his own and plenty more. His level of perception is nothing to scoff at either. Whether it is from the training he had received from four years of age, too many years on the job and in the hunt, or just residue from hell and the mark, not much slipped under his radar these days. Sam is _especially_ one of those things that are constantly on the back of his mind.

At least, that is how it used to be, back before he went dark side and left his brother for dead a few times. The realization now that he has a care in the world again makes his innards twist in discomfort. He still cannot believe how thrown off of his basic instincts he was. He neglected Baby. He neglected _Sam._  He was taught to care for those things since he can remember. And death, demons, and a mark on his arm completely stripped his core programming and rewired him. It took him a few weeks to find his footing again. But now he is back, and he is relieved for that. His Sammy-radar is back on and functioning full force. So now, naturally, he is worried.

He has picked up the hints lately. It has taken him time to adjust back to living without the mark, without the fire burning deep in him, but now that he has settled he has noticed. Plus, when his Sammy-radar is actually working, the kid was never able to truly hide anything from him. Dean could read his little brother too well, it is just how he was raised; how he raised Sam. And lately, Dean has picked up on enough to make him worry.

He has seen the signs before, sure. Dean could not think of a hunter without at least one or two of the warning signs. But it is different with Sam, it always has been. The kid is one of the most emotionally in-tune people he knows. Dean also knows that means his brother is pretty good at capping them and stuffing them away to burn later. But Dean has been seeing the more drastic emotions that are so uniquely _Sam_ spilling out between the kid's cracking exterior. Those familiar warning signs are resurfacing and it worries him.

Yes, he has seen some of these certain signs plenty of times... the brooding, the nightmares, the lack of hunger, the fidgeting, and more... but it is just different this time. They are both different. Dean knows he is better. He also knows he cannot say the same for Sam. He is not sure what is going on in his brother's giant brain, and it scares the hell out of him. So he will start from scratch. He just has to be sure of  _something_ , because… then maybe it he at least has a baseline, a real diagnosis… he can work on a solution.

Hell... that is what Sam did for him. He is well in line to return the favor.

Here he is, alive and unmarked; living to tell the tale without the underlying burning rage that always seemed to keep him that much more on edge. He knows that was Sam’s doing. He knows his brother spent nights sleeplessly researching, hunting, driving, _not eating or resting_ , being wounded and then _ignoring_ _it_ -

Dean has to put a cap on that mental list before he drives himself crazy. He sighs and runs a hand across his face. His whole arm feels lighter without the mark, now,  _everything_ does really; except that underlying fear and instinct screaming _take-care-of-Sammy_. Now that his head and arm are clear he could really begin to notice and think about it all. And what he started picking up on scared the shit out of him.

Dean scans the seemingly designated psychology section of the huge library again with interest and concern battling for dominance in his head. There are so many handbooks and manuals and everything else. It makes his head spin. How many of these DSM things did they need in the world? Was the "best version" even in this paper tomb somewhere? _…Is_ there a best version?

Dean sighs again and rubs his eyes. That is another thing that he has been noticing since the mark was taken away and things have calmed down. He is _tired_ , bone deep, _soul_ deep. But then he remembers that sure as hell didn’t stop Sam from researching and fighting and whatever else the kid put himself through that Dean really does not want to think about right now. And the giant idiot did it with one wing clipped.

The dust is thick in Dean’s throat from the lack of use in this section of the library and he is becoming irritated and done with these various versions of the same thing. He is just going to go to the internet. At least he has a point of focus now, he can remember three letters.

Apparently, the 5th version is the newest one. Whatever; Dean is just happy he is in the comfort of his room now and on the laptop. Memory foam, it does wonders.

He almost hesitates when typing in exactly what he is looking for. He feels like he is doing something wrong, like he is somehow snooping into Sam’s life, even though he is not really looking at any Sam-specific information. Alright, it is rather Sam-centric, but still. It almost rubs him the wrong way, but he needs answers. He has gathered enough information about what Sam went through during his Hail Mary to save his brother from Cas' short responses and Sam's clipped conversation. If he digs deep enough, he can almost feel the hammer in his hand again. He tries to focus on the screen in front of him instead.

He has the basics, and he has seen enough warning signs in his brother. He knows he needs to find some answers, _something._ If not answers, at least somewhere to start. 

That is what Sam has taught him lately if nothing else. Identify the problem, research it, find a cure, and fix it.

Dean types “PTSD DSM-V” into the search bar with numb fingers.

 

The DSM-V gives diagnostic criteria for PTSD. This primarily includes a history of exposure to a traumatic event. This event and the fallout need to meet specific symptoms/resulting actions/habits from each of four symptom clusters: intrusion, avoidance, negative alterations in cognition/mood, and alterations in arousal/reactivity. The sixth criterion concerns the duration of the symptoms. The seventh assesses functioning. The eighth, and final, clarifies that the symptoms are not due to a substance or co-occurring medical condition.

 

Dean eyes the list critically before giving a tight sigh. He presses his fingers to his temples. He does not want to start this. He is afraid of where it will end.

He takes a controlled breath. He scrolls down the page.

 

**Criterion A: stressor**

The person was exposed to: death, threatened death, actual or threatened serious injury, or actual or threatened sexual violence, as follows: (one required)

  * Direct exposure
  * Witnessing, in person
  * Indirectly, by learning that a close relative or close friend was exposed to trauma. If the event involved actual or threatened death, it must have been violent or accidental
  * Repeated or extreme indirect exposure to aversive details of the event(s), usually in the course of professional duties. This does not include indirect non-professional exposure through electronic media, television, movies, or pictures. 



 

Dean's only reaction is to almost have to laugh at the beginning of the definition because he does not want to focus on the wave of pain that floods his chest and twists his gut.

Death, dying, seeing it, _experiencing_ it, it all just seems so habitual to them now. They have both spent their time away from the land of the living, but Dean knows he needs to think on a smaller temporal scale for the situation at hand.

How does getting chased through the closest thing you’ve ever had to a real home by a hammer-wielding murderer, who also happens to be your recently un-dead and now-evil older brother, sound for _threatened death?_

Dean grits his teeth tightly together, feeling the anger start to spread in him again from deep inside his chest. It is not the same bloodthirsty rage that the mark fueled him with. No, this is just the infuriatingly human ache of frustration and guilt. He has to shut the feeling down. He needs to read more. He needs to  _know_. Sam isn’t talking, which is irritating and worrying on a whole different level.

Sam has always been the talker, the feeler, the one who could at least identify emotions and try to make some sense out of them. It has never been Dean’s forte. But now Sam won’t say a peep. Dean is going crazy because how can anything be fixed when the one who is the best at working through this kind of thing has decided not to try?

And to then add on the injury… well, of course Sam is a little off right now. Dean cannot remember back to a time where Sam had taken this big of a physical hit that would still classify as a non-lethal injury; maybe when he broke his hand all those years ago. But even still, this is very different. That was a quick in-and-out of the emergency room and a plaster cast that quickly just came off on its own after doing its job.

The shoulder is different. This happened when Dean was not around to fix him up; happened _because_ he was looking for Dean. Did the damn kid even go to the hospital to get it truly checked out? Probably not, knowing how single-minded his brother had become while searching for a cure. Cas had told him enough about his brother’s poor health condition after all of the drama about the cure blew over.

Without the constant underlying drive for blood, Dean notices everything now. Seeing Sam, _really looking_ at Sam, after the mark was taken… it almost broke him right then and there. The giant is so damn lanky and thin now. He always had a tall and lean frame, but this was something else. This was just unhealthy, the kid looked sick. Dean is sure eating on a normal schedule, or even an abnormal but still functioning schedule, was not on Sam’s agenda during the whole ordeal either. As far as he knows it has not improved either. With his shoulder all out of sync, all of the muscle robo-Sam had built up for his kid brother was worn down by exhaustion and malnutrition. So, “ _serious injury”_... Damn straight. 

Dean shakes his head and has to stop reading for a second. Already, this was not looking good. He did not expect better, but the various realizations make him feel sick himself. He forces himself to keep reading. 

 

**Criterion B: intrusion symptoms**

The traumatic event is persistently re-experienced in the following way(s): (one required)

  * Recurrent, involuntary, and intrusive memories
  * Traumatic nightmares
  * Dissociative reactions (e.g., flashbacks) which may occur on a continuum from brief episodes to complete loss of consciousness
  * Intense or prolonged distress after exposure to traumatic reminders
  * Marked physiologic reactivity after exposure to trauma-related stimuli



 

The kid has always had nightmares, horrible ones, _painful_ ones. Dean knows this fact better than anyone. Hell if he can get the kid to talk about them nowadays though. He is sure it is because the giant does not want to offend Dean with talk of his older brother when he was a demon or under the influence of the mark.

Dean knows what he did; what he did to demons, angels, Cole, Cas... hell _to Sam._ He could have killed Sam, many times. He left him for dead at the hands of Cole, let the bastard go after his brother even after hearing from the soldier’s mouth about the violence he was intending. And then of course later Dean took matters into his own hands and almost killed his brother himself.

Sam knows that Dean feels guilty because of it, all of it. Dean doubts his brother would want to do anything to make that shame worsen.  

Dean just wishes it wouldn’t shut his brother up and away. He has seen the dark smudges under Sam’s eyes. They were bad when his brother was looking for the cure, but they still do not look much better. If anything, he just holds himself with an overall exhausted air.

When Sam was searching to cure Dean, he has a purpose, an end goal. Now, Dean is whole and healthy and back on his feet and all of that, and he can imagine his brother is just tired now with everything catching up to him.

But the kid’s brain has always been too big. His memory is killer and Dean admires that in critical times like when recalling information about a monster or a witness. But it is a blessing and a curse, because Dean knows that the kid retains just about everything, and never really lets it go. He is sure Sam must be having nightmares or night terrors or just plain old insomnia, but of course the kid won’t talk. Dean knows it is not Sam’s pride or anything of that nature; it is just the kid being afraid of making things worse between the two of them.

Dissociation is something Dean has to think an extra minute about. Sure, he has a good enough idea of what it is. It is hard to keep his thoughts from wandering into the “possession” territory, though. He has not seen Sam having flashbacks lately. It reminds him too much of the Lucifer days and makes a shudder involuntarily shoot down his spine. No, nothing like that is plaguing his brother nowadays, he thinks.

Maybe the kid _is_ experiencing those things… Dean would not know. He has not been able to be around his brother for long periods of time. He more just catches glimpses here and there. Sam has been in what is basically hiding. But what he _has_ seen of Sam…

Sometimes the kid is at the table, picking at a small portion of food, and his mind is on another planet. He will stare at the table-top or the wall or even just his own pale fingers playing with his fork, and he will not say anything or move for too many minutes. Dean has had to repeat the kid’s name a few dozen times to snap him out of it. He is not sure where the kid’s mind goes, but the dull and lifeless glaze that settles over Sam’s eyes tells him that it can’t be good.

Dean can’t even think about the prolonged distress part. Hell, when lately has Sam felt a time when he _wasn’t_ feeling that nerve-wracking drive to save Dean in some way from death or being a demon or the mark back when he had it? The kid was non-stop. And _marked physiological reactivity_ …? The kid damn near has a heart attack every time someone sneaks up on him, let alone when it is Dean and he almost goes into full panic mode. And this is “sneaking up” not in the sense of trying to be secretive but rather someone just entering a room he is already in and speaking aloud.

It is especially bad when Sam is zoning out and Dean will enter the room, seeing Sam’s tense back and exhausted frame, and call to his brother like he has hundreds of times before. Last time that happened, Sam jumped about a foot and knocked one of his books from the table, quickly fumbling for the dropped thick textbook-looking novel and mumbling shaky apologies in a small voice.

Dean wants to slam the laptop shut.

He returns a few minutes later with a beer and takes another sip before setting it aside.

 

**Criterion C: avoidance**

Persistent and effortful avoidance of distressing trauma-related stimuli after the event: (one required)

  * Trauma-related thoughts or feelings
  * Trauma-related external reminders (e.g., people, places, conversations, activities, objects, or situations)



 

Dean has to slam the laptop closed and pace to his closed bedroom door and back. External reminders, _external reminders?_ Dean shakes his head and runs a hand through his hair. His eye catches on the reflection of his movement in the small mirror hanging above the dresser in the corner of his room and he wants to grab it and throw and destroy it. Talk about a god _damn external reminder!_

He is moving before he can think twice. The thud from the frame against the wall is dull but the shatter from the mirror itself breaking is loud and ringing. Dean does not flinch. His hands are clenching and releasing in rapid cycles as he takes rushed breaths. This rage is different than it was with the mark, but it is still burning hot inside him. This is familiar, _human,_ anger. He has felt this before, too many times, and he will deal with it like he always does.

He wants something to be torn apart because how else is he supposed to experience it? He needs the _destruction_ , he needs the physical reminder, he needs the sound of it _breaking,_ he needs-

The knock at the door makes his breathing hitch for a beat. Dean blinks the red away from his gaze and rubs at his eyes once. He tears his gaze away from the millions of pieces of the mirror shining up from where they are sprawled across the rug a few feet away, glinting up at him.

“Dean?” Sam’s weary voice paired with another knock snap him out of his staring.

Dean blinks a few more times to re-center himself and turns away from his bedroom to the closed door. He takes a handful of calming breaths and opens it.

Sam almost jumps from the sudden movement and slowly looks Dean over with a critical eye. Half asleep or not, Sam will always check over every single aspect of a potentially dangerous situation involving his brother before allowing himself to relax. The fading, but still apparent, rage in Dean’s bright green eyes makes Sam physically wince when their eyes meet for a split second and then fail to hide it.

The younger brother automatically drops his gaze and takes a half-step back. His arm re-situated in the brace shifts slightly and that hand automatically grips onto his shirt tightly. He is still dressed in sleep clothes, Dean just now realizes, and his stomach sinks further when he realizes this is the first time today he has actually seen Sam within a ten foot radius.

Dean wants to reach out and just take care of him like he always has. Feed him, get him fresh clothes, give him something to make him sleep, help with his shoulder that got re-wrenched, just do _something because it is his job_ , but he is stuck there, frozen, watching his kid brother recoil in fear… fear of him. Dean has to swallow down the lump in his throat and forces his posture to relax. He is about to talk but Sam stumbles something out.

“S-Sorry, I-I just wanted… wanted to make sure e-everything was okay,” Sam cannot meet his gaze and the fingers clawing into his shirt clench even further, “H-Heard the crash.”

Dean is surprised the kid isn’t tearing his shirt apart with how he is grabbing onto it like a lifeline. He forces himself to take another few breaths. He can’t look away from Sam’s tired and thin pale face. The kid won’t meet his gaze again. Dean clears his throat and forced his mouth to work.

“I’m fine, man, thanks,” Dean searches Sam’s face that is turned downwards, willing his brother to look him in the eye, “Just dropped my beer bottle and it broke. No problem.”

Sam’s eyes flicker to the side but his head remains tilted towards the floor. He swallows tenderly and nods a few times. His skin feels to thin, too small, he feels on edge and he has no idea why and he hates it. He realizes he is shaking faintly. He has no reason to, _dammit, no reason_ to act like this at all. It’s just _Dean_ , and everything that happened that is now currently painting the insides of his mind and mocking him was certainly _not Dean_ ; but it makes his head spin all the same. But he did it, he got Dean back, there was living proof a few feet away. So _why_ can’t he just accept that?

His chest is too tight and he can’t breathe. His arm that is braced is throbbing up to his shoulder and back from gripping his shirt for too long but the pain doesn’t ground him, not this time, it is making everything worse and his vision pulses for a second.

He is just so tired. That is so odd, it is wrong, what the hell, he just woke up… right? Was it morning? What time even was it? What day…?

Dean is not a demon anymore, or cursed, or dying, or… No, Dean was here a few feet away. And Dean is fine, he was fine this morning. Did Sam see him this morning…? Is it already late afternoon?

“Sammy?” Dean’s carefully even voice suddenly fades into earshot and Sam jerks as if he was slapped.

Wide hazel eyes flash up to his from where they were boring a hole into the wall somewhere behind Dean’s left leg. Sam stiffens abruptly and his jaw clenches. Dean has been saying his name a few times now, trying to snap him back from wherever his mind went to. _Dissociation,_ Dean’s brain supplies and he angrily forces the thought out of his head.

“S-Sorry, what?” Sam’s voice is rough and he clears his throat and blinks a few times.

Sam makes his fingers release their death-grip on his tee shirt and he tries to smooth the fabric down with his other hand to little avail. Dean forces himself to take another steadying breath before continuing. The kid looks like he is about to split and run on the spot and hole up back in his room, so Dean knows he needs to be gentle.

“Do you want to get something to eat? It’s good to see you up and about, kiddo, we should get something in your stomach.”

Dean’s voice sounds almost too nice to Sam’s ears. It makes him nauseous. He needs to get away, and get away _now_. His fingers are trembling slightly and he knows Dean will notice, and if Dean notices then he will start asking questions, and Sam cannot answer them. Not yet, not now, not since he finally fixed everything. Sam shakes his head lightly and takes another step back.

“N-No thanks, I’m alright… thanks,” Sam won’t - _can’t_ \- meet his brother’s eyes.

He sees Dean’s arm shift slightly and automatically takes another step back, also taking in a shaky breath.

“I…’m glad you’re okay,” He exhales nervously before turning and disappearing back into his room with a tired but uptight gait.

Sam's door closes and Dean has to grab the door frame next to him to keep himself from collapsing then and there. Had he really not noticed how _bad_ this all was? He shakes his head and glances back over his shoulder at the laptop sitting closed on his bed.

He doesn’t want to read more. He feels like he needs to. He needs something to eat and something strong to drink. He needs Sam doing all of this with him. He needs to fix this. He needs to research.

Sam did that when it seemed all the odds were against him. Dean can do it too.

Sam got him back. Now he needs Sam back.

Dean grabs the laptop and tucks it under his arm as he makes his way to the kitchen.

 

**Criterion D: negative alterations in cognition and mood**

Negative alterations in cognition and mood that began or worsened after the traumatic event: (two required)

  * Inability to recall key features of the traumatic event (usually dissociative amnesia; not due to head injury, alcohol, or drugs)
  * Persistent (and often distorted) negative beliefs and expectations about oneself or the world (e.g., "I am bad," "The world is completely dangerous")
  * Persistent distorted blame of self or others for causing the traumatic event or for resulting consequences
  * Persistent negative trauma-related emotions (e.g., fear, horror, anger, guilt, or shame)
  * Markedly diminished interest in (pre-traumatic) significant activities
  * Feeling alienated from others (e.g., detachment or estrangement)
  * Constricted affect: persistent inability to experience positive emotions



 

Sam’s stomach is protesting and he hugs himself tighter. As soon as he closed the door behind him he had frantically unhooked the shoulder brace and threw it across his bare bedroom. It was suffocating him. He couldn’t breathe, he still can’t. He tried to go horizontal to help his lungs expand and nothing helped.

He grips his torso tighter now. He knows he should probably eat, or get up, or function like a normal human being right now, but he _can’t_. His shoulder burns and he forces his head further into the pillow instead.

He tries to remind himself he has been through this before. He has been through bad times and come out hurting and bruised and breathing, but still _gotten through it._ The days of the Yellow-Eyed Demon, of Dean’s deal, of Lucifer and the apocalypse, of hell and the cage, of Dean and Cas going MIA in Purgatory, of the trials, of Dean getting killed and then coming _back as a cursed demon and attacking him in a game of cat-and-mouse and-_

Sam swallows roughly and shakes his head blindly, pressing his eyelids so tightly shut he is seeing pinpricks of light. _No. Stop it,_ he tries to mentally command himself,  _S_ _top thinking, just_ shut up _and stop_.

He could do this. He always has. And he can do it alone. This time is no worse than all those other times. He is not tripping Lucifer or in a different hemisphere or ethereal plane than Dean or whatever else. He is in the same building as his perfectly human brother. The situation is no worse; he has come to accept that. No, this is just him not being able to get over something petty and stupid and pushing Dean away because of it.

But at the same time… this time is also so much worse in its own way.

He has no idea what to do this time. He is weaker now, weaker than before, than _ever_ before, and he is breaking down. He automatically thinks back to the trials where his body was giving up on him then. That was physical pain that slowed him down, but he had purpose then, he was mentally going strong. He was going to close hell. He was going to finally do something right by his brother. He had a mission. He had a reason.

Now… he has no idea what to do. Dean is cured. Cas is somewhere safe doing his good Cas things in heaven, probably reorganizing everything up there. Crowley is appeased and elsewhere. There is this weird sense of peace due to the absence of danger, and Sam has no idea what to do with it.

It’s his fault, no one else’s, it always has been. You can trace that common tune back to any time in his life and it will be gospel. You could say the same for Dean’s life as well. Everything that happened to the both of them is because of a choice that Sam made incorrectly. He wouldn’t be here, curled up and alone in his room like some little kid, if it wasn’t for his own actions.

 _Dean wouldn’t be around either_ , his brain supplies for him.

Yes, that is true, he did it. He cured Dean. But now what? He put everything he was into curing his brother of being a demon and then of the mark. And it is done. Dean is living and as healthy as he can be for someone with his normal dietary and drinking habits.

Sam spent all of his time and energy to make that happen. He doesn’t have any left. So now what? His body will not heal itself anymore. He is too tired to stay awake and too wired to go to sleep. Eating is a joke to him now. What is he supposed to do when everything he has done is the result of his choices, and now he has no way to take the action to make those choices in the first place?

His body lying uncomfortably on the bed is straining now, he is holding himself so tightly. He put himself here. He could probably get himself out of all this… if he really wanted to.

That is the difference. He wanted to overcome his hell traumas and Lucifer hallucinations because he needed to get back in the game, because Dean needed him. He has gotten over Dean’s many deaths because he needed to, because Dean helped him to.

Dean doesn’t need him to bounce back this time. Now, Sam is weak and tired and can’t stay upright for long enough to do anything effective, let alone _hunt_. His shoulder is a hindrance and won’t _just heal_ and even now it is stinging. The muscles are shaking from his tense posture and it _hurts_ but he can’t stop. He has nothing else to do.

This is what is different. He could fix himself like he has fixed so many other things before, but this is not like those times. This is just him, an empty vessel that is worn down because he gave everything he had to another cause. And thankfully not a lost cause. The fruit of that labor is walking around now, most likely in the kitchen. Sam did that, and he does not regret it one bit. He fixed that. He has fixed a lot.

He is not sure he wants to this time.

He is not sure anyone needs him to this time.

He is just so tired.

 

**Criterion E: alterations in arousal and reactivity**

Trauma-related alterations in arousal and reactivity that began or worsened after the traumatic event: (two required)

  * Irritable or aggressive behavior
  * Self-destructive or reckless behavior
  * Hypervigilance
  * Exaggerated startle response
  * Problems in concentration
  * Sleep disturbance



 

Sam is not sure how much time has passed, but it doesn’t really matter. His head is throbbing and his stomach is spinning and his shoulder finally gave out from the strain what could have been hours ago. He had rolled onto that side of his body on accident, trying to stop the bright lights of a migraine from sparking behind his eyelids, and that one movement drained the rest of his efforts. He is almost positive the combined stress of the muscles and ligaments as well as his combined weight on the joint has done something bad to it.

He hasn’t moved. He doesn’t care anymore. He can’t. He has nothing left to give. So he lets his shoulder burn and grind between his clavicle, ribs, and the mattress, and lets the hot tears stinging the backs of his eyes well up because he has no control anymore. He is powerless against his body and mind. And there is nothing else he can do about it.

He might have fallen asleep at one point. It might be morning again by now. He isn’t sure. He doesn’t really care. He just needs it to stop. It is too much. Time itself is too much right now. He has already dealt with enough. He thought he got to be done now.

His stomach lurches and he swallows roughly. He forces his large body to curl into an even tighter ball. He doesn’t know what time it is, or what day, or sometimes even where he is. He could be anywhere in the bunker, really, if he forgets to constantly remind himself. It is all blurred together. He could be at the big war table trying to eat something and steal glances at Dean to reassure himself that his brother is finally safe. He could be in the bunker library, searching endlessly for a cure and almost giving up hope too many times to count. He could be down in the dungeon with his brother strapped to that chair and yelling at him about how his efforts were never desired anyways, how they never were during any time in their lives. He could be in hell again. He could be making all of this up and blink again and find himself in the cage. That thought hasn’t crossed his head for a while. But he could be anywhere, even hell.

Something in his shoulder clicks again under him and he sinks even further into the mattress. If he keeps this behavior up, his body will give out soon and he will know for a fact that hell is where he is residing. The scary part is that he is questioning what is stopping him.

Is that all that is left to do, stop making decisions and just let fate take that course for him? He is sure he is going back downstairs, he is just the boy with demon blood after all. Where else would he go? He had his chances to purify himself, and he has failed at that plenty of times.

The last time he truly failed to cleanse himself in even the biblical sense, it was because Dean asked him – begged him – to. And so he did it for Dean, because Dean wanted him better; and he stayed unclean and left hell open. But now…?

Now he finally did something right, right even by Dean. He got Dean back to being Dean again. That is all he wanted, and he did it. He gave everything he had into it.

That was his repentance.

The thought almost makes him smile now, almost. He did it. He brought his brother back from the dead and beyond and then righted the consequences of that partial mistake and now there was nothing left to fix.

He did it. He may not be pure now, not ever, but at least Dean is.

The thought never occurred to him before. He saved Dean. Maybe they could finally be even now. Maybe he can finally stop being Dean’s responsibility. Maybe he can finally be forgiven for everything.

The thought makes him feel stronger than he has in days, or maybe weeks. Time since Dean’s cure and healing has been irrelevant and fluxing to him. It makes sense now. That was it. That was his big move. He couldn’t end the game with the Yellow-Eyed Demon, or take himself out of the game in the apocalypse, or even close hell, but he could and did save his brother. That was what he was here for, and he did it.

A few months after Sam was born, Dean was sworn to protect him. It has taken years and years, but Sam finally got to protect Dean, in the most finite way. He protected Dean from _Dean_ when no one else could. Sam certainly couldn’t save anything or anyone from Sam. But he did it for Dean.

He did it. He reset the scale. They were even now. That is why he can’t think of anything to do from here on out, because there _is_ nothing else to do.

Dean doesn’t need anything else. In the past, Sam has always overcome because Dean needed him back in the saddle. But now it is different.

This is change. This could be good…

The bones of his shoulder are all out of place now and his stomach is protesting as his mind is spinning. He feels lighter than he has in years. It is no longer an empty feeling; it is a sensation of weightlessness.

This is different.

…This is good.

 

**Criterion F: duration**

Persistence of symptoms (in Criteria B, C, D, and E) for more than one month.

 

This is the first time he has seen this constant fear and worry coursing in him from the crashing memories and nightmares in his head that mix with his ever-present self-hatred as something positive. He will not be able to forget Dean coming after him with hate in his eyes and a weapon in hand, because he is not _meant to._ These constant fears and memories and thoughts are keeping him from bouncing back, from _healing_ , because he did his job. He’s done. He can finally get some goddamn rest.

Sam smiles for the first time in over a month.

 

**Criterion G: functional significance**

Significant symptom-related distress or functional impairment (e.g., social, occupational).

 

Sam’s shoulder is out of place again, it must be, but the burning is beyond his awareness now. It doesn’t matter anyways. He knows he will not be able to hunt again, to lift objects or his own body weight, to shoot a gun, to just be useful.

He has made peace with that now.

He is just so tired.

He just wants to rest.

 

**Criterion H: exclusion**

Disturbance is not due to medication, substance use, or other illness.

 

Dean expected Sam to wander in by now. It is easily reaching midnight. Now that he thinks about it more specifically, he is not sure if Sam has been upright at all today except for when he checked on Dean a few hours before.

He finished the criteria list earlier and searched other websites and the list goes on and now he is not happy with the results. He knows something is up with Sam, he has known that for a few weeks now. Now he has a name for it at least. He also knows he has been letting this go on for long enough. He keeps waiting for Sam to take the first step, to initiate the emotional fallout, to be the relatable one like he always is, to just _fix it all_ again.

But now, Dean realizes that isn’t fair. Sam has been working for months to cure Dean of everything. He fixed all of Dean’s mistakes. Hell the kid has fixed the _world’s_ mistakes too many times to count. Dean knows it is his turn now, he knows that is only fair. It is his job anyways.

It always has been.


	2. Rest

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You are all the best, seriously. Thank you so much for the feedback. To popular demand, here is the emotional fallout because the bromance is strong. Lots of feels.

Dean walks through the halls a few minutes later with a tray holding a plate of food and glass of juice on it. He has come to his own conclusion that Sam most likely has not eaten today. He is not sure when the kid last ate at all. The fact unsettles him deep down.

Dean shakes his head and turns the final corner to reach Sam’s bedroom. He pauses outside of the closed door, hesitating one more time. He forces the nerves down and reminds himself that he _needs_ to do this. He knows he needs to do this, and he needs to do it gently. He raps the knuckles of his free hand against the door a few times.

“Hey Sammy, you awake in there?”

Silence, but he did not expect much more than that. Dean only hears his own slightly elevated breathing as nerves tingle up and down his spine.

“Sam?” Dean tries again.

Again, he is only met with his own thin breaths in response. This is _not_ normal. Sam would at least acknowledge him, right? And there was no crashing from a jolt response or a muffled curse or any sign of recognition. This is not like Sam. Dean knows his brother, and at the same time he also knows that is not all he is facing right now. He is dealing with Sam, but a Sam that is incredibly fragile and breaking.

He has dealt with a delicate Sam before, of course, but this is different. The Yellow Eyed Demon is not the bad guy this time. Lucifer is not the bad guy this time.

Dean is.

It is amazing the kid has held up this long, now that Dean thinks about it. Dean has done nothing to help Sam even _start_ to recover. Dean has been worried with bouncing back himself. But now he is set, he is all healed up, and he left his little brother behind in that same process. He needs to change that.

“Sammy, I’m coming in,” Dean announces as loudly and calmly as he can.

He fumbles with the door a few times, trying to make enough noise so as to alert his brother of his presence but also trying not to startle the kid too much. Dean ducks around the door and stops stock-still when he sees his brother. His mouth runs dry and he almost drops the tray. At first he thinks Sam is seizing, the kid’s body is so tightly coiled up.

Sam is sandwiched into as constricted of a ball as he can manage. It chills Dean to his core how _small_ Sam looks. He is on one side, barely taking up three-quarters of the already too-small-for-Sam sized bed. His chest is shaking and Dean can hear his erratic breathing from across the room.

“Sam…?” Dean’s mouth moves dazedly before he can stop himself.

A sudden low whimper between the ragged, shaking pants snaps Dean out of his stupor. The tray drops from his numb fingers but he could not care less. Dean barely flinches at the sound of the crashing plate and cup. Sam does not react at all.

Dean has seen his brother sick and lying in a bed too many times for his liking. He has seen his brother down and out for the count. But this is something different. This is worse. This is Sam at one of his lowest points that Dean has ever seen. This is Sam truly _afraid._ Dean knows he may trigger something worse in his brother by coming closer without Sam seeing him first, but he is not standing by anymore. He has never heard his brother make that kind of sound, and he never wants to again. That muffled lament almost didn’t sound human. It was a low, keening, _pained_ noise.

Sam’s body is folded in on itself so tightly there is no possible way he could be avoiding pain. As Dean gets closer he sees the faint trembles rumbling all over Sam’s body. Dean’s hand hovers over Sam’s shoulder closest to him, as the other joint is buried between his lanky body and the mattress. Dean realizes with a wince that the shoulder getting re-wrenched beneath his brother’s diminishing weight is his injured one. His eyes flicker up to see the sling thrown against the wall a few feet away.

_“Christ,_ kid, what did you do?” Dean asks in a hushed voice, finally able to make his vocal chords work with a shaky tone.

A choked back and half-bitten moan is punched out of Sam’s lungs and instantly Dean’s attention is drawn back to his trembling form. Dean gently lets his hand make contact with Sam’s shoulder, expecting the giant to flinch away and hurt himself further, but again Sam does not react. Dean lets his hand grip the top of Sam’s bicep tighter and he shakes once. Dean is not sure Sam could even flinch if he tried; the kid is so balled up and tense. Sam’s head is turned into the pillow, slightly muffling his sickly-sounding wheezing.

“Sam,” Dean says sternly and shakes his shoulder once more.

The kid does not move in response to his brother’s voice, neither towards nor away from Dean. If anything he seems to start breathing even harder. Dean can feel the tremors shaking his brother’s body travel up into his palm. Sam seems oblivious to the world. Dean feels his own heartrate accelerating with fear.

“Sam, come on kid, look at me.”

Dean gets another low, wounded noise in response and Sam’s face presses harder against the pillow. Dean sees his brother starting to get an ill sheen of sweat on his cheek and neck. Sam’s breathing is getting louder and faster and Dean knows they are heading into panic attack territory at this point. They may already be there, for all Dean knows. He just wishes the kid would look at him so he could assess the situation better.

“Sam, just listen to me okay?” Dean immediately starts talking, falling back into his normal habit of a gentle, constant stream of dialogue whenever his brother is out of his head and out of sorts.

Sam continues to tremble but his head shifts slightly like he is trying to shake his head but simply does not have the full effort to. The muscles Dean can see working along his back and shoulders are impossibly tight. If he looks too close he can almost see the vertebrae through the fabric of Sam’s shirt. Dean mentally curses and reminds him to take one problem at a time.

“Sam, can you hear me, man? Give me something to work with here,” Dean continues speaking in a soft but urgent tone as he tries to get through to his brother.

All he gets in response is Sam’s wheezing breathing.

“Sam, I need you to look at me, alright? It is just you and me, little brother, okay? You did it, you cured me and I am just one hundred percent your asshole brother again. You did it, okay? You don’t have to worry anymore. But now you’re scaring me, kid. Let me see those puppy-dog eyes, alright? Come on Sammy, work with me,” Dean urges carefully.

Sam’s shoulders suddenly hike up further to his ears in response to the nickname he has not heard with a caring tone for so long, but at the same time the shaking stops. Dean freezes, afraid to set his brother off and terrified of whatever he just caused. Sam’s heartbeat is still thrumming beneath his touch on Sam’s arm. That is the only thing grounding him.

“Sammy?” Dean asks cautiously.

Sam’s head shifts slightly to the side and Dean can see one red-rimmed eye peering up fearfully at him between his long sweaty bangs. Dean watches Sam with a carefully constructed neutral face. They seem stuck there for what feels like years. Dean licks his dried lips once and tries to make his vocal cords work again.

“Sam, man, are you-?”

In an instant Sam’s body loses all of the coiled up tension and he is torn away from Dean’s grip. Sam throws himself back and away from Dean, clambering across his bed before gravity slams him against the floor. Sam scrabbles back and away until his shoulders hit the wall and he involuntarily cries out. Sam sits there, body coiled and ready to flee, eyes wide and glassy. He looks up at Dean with fear in his gaze. The wave of surprise at the kid’s sudden act of strength washes over Dean and quickly fades as rapidly as it came. He looks over at Sam with thick sympathy and guilt flooding his veins. He did this. This is his fault.

He raises his hands up in a placating gesture and watches his kid brother shaking on the floor. Dean makes a move to step around the bed between them but Sam stiffens and presses himself back tighter against the wall with a wince.

“Sammy,” Dean’s voice breaks slightly but he doesn’t care, _“God,_ I’m so sorry-”

“Don’t be.” Sam interrupts quietly, staring at Dean with wide eyes.

Sam blinks a few times and forces himself to look down at the floor in front of him, away from Dean’s gaze that is dripping with sympathy. His heart is pounding in his ears and he can’t breathe. His hands are shaking and he chooses to hug his middle tightly, trying to make himself stop fucking _trembling, stop being weak, stop it_. His brain yells at him and god he wishes he could _stop._ Sam bites his lip when the movement of wrapping himself up in his long arms pulls at his shoulder again.

“’S not your fault. ‘S my fault, always my fault, you didn’t do anything,” Sam swallows roughly and winces at the sound of his own weakened voice, scratchy from misuse and swallowing down emotions.

Dean takes a slow step and Sam automatically tenses. Sam squeezes his eyes shut and mentally hurls curses at himself. He shouldn’t be like this. He shouldn’t be doing this. He is acting like a child. He just finally thought Dean would be okay somewhere else and he could get some rest. All he wants is to be done.

Sam slowly cracks his eyelids apart and steals a glance up at Dean. His brother slowly lowers his arms and Sam cannot help but wince slightly. Dean’s eyes are wide and sad. Sam rarely sees this look on his brother. It reminds him of the trials, of when Dean needed him.

_There ain’t no me if there ain’t no you._ His brain suddenly picks the quote out of the mess of thoughts swarming in his head. He can almost hear the words and blinks a few times to remind himself that Dean is not saying these things now. He did, once upon a time, when he needed Sam around. Not this time, Sam is sure this time he will not receive another uncharacteristically rare but treasured bumper sticker phrase to cling to. No… this time is different.

Another wave of nausea hits Sam and he swallows it back down his sandpaper throat.

_“…Your_ fault?” Dean finally makes his voice work enough to ask with an incredulous tone, snapping Sam out of his deteriorating mental train of thought.

Dean shakes his head in disbelief a few times and has to look away for a second and blink against the stinging in his eyes. Sam watches him in fear, again curling in on himself by hugging his heaving torso tighter and drawing his knees up close in front of him, shielding with limbs he is not sure are strong enough to resist breaking anymore.

“Sam… Sammy, you saved me, man. You got me back to _me_ again, how the hell is any of this your fault?” Dean is looking at Sam again, eyes sharp and piercing.

Dean can feel the sudden pang of rage spike in his chest again, but this time it is welcomed. It makes sense this time. Dean is not angry, no, he is good old-fashioned _worried_ and the hit of hot frustration seems to confirm somewhere deep down that what he is doing is right. He can take care of his brother. It is instinct to him, one he can stop ignoring now that nothing else is constantly diverting his attention.

Sam almost flinches again in response to the flash of rage across Dean’s open expression, but feels his stomach drop through the floor as he recognizes the deep guilt and sorrow underlying his brother’s gaze. _Dammit,_ this is what he was trying to _avoid._ His body tries to recoil further but he has nowhere left to go, back tightly pressed against the wall and knees to his chest. Sam is trembling so much now his teeth are almost chattering and he forces his jaw to clamp down tighter. His teeth begin to pierce the side of his lip and the faint taste of copper hits his tongue. He cannot bring himself to stop, either.

Dean can see the brittle edge Sam is pacing along right now, can see the mental cap Sam is forcing on his emotions. He is just thankful the kid has not looked away yet, at least with this eye contact that has become rare lately, Dean can try to reach Sam in some way. Dean’s mouth starts working for him again as he tries to gently break his brother down so he can hopefully build him back up after. It is never easy, especially when Sam is such a stubborn and determined son-of-a-bitch, but that has never stopped Dean before. It sure as hell will not stop him now.

But for that to happen, Dean knows that the kid needs to realize this is not his damn fault like he thinks it is, like he _always_ thinks it is. Dean hates it when Sam plays the blame game. No matter the speaker, Dean or Sam himself, Sam _always_ gets the short end of the stick and the emotional baggage along with it. No, if Sam is trying to go the blame game route, Dean needs to shut that down immediately.

“You found a cure, Sam, you did that,” Dean lets his mouth run as he tries to form a way to talk both of them out of this assignment of guilt, realizing he needs to make Sam realize he is shouldering a lot of it as well, “You healed me. I’m just the monster that basically attacked you. That is on me, Sam. Not. You.”

Sam’s entire body flinches at the crudeness of the statement and he has to blink a few times to see his brother standing a few feet away as a human again. His mind withdraws another memory from the muddled mess of his brain and supplies him with his brother standing in front of him with glistening black eyes and a blood-red maroon shirt. The image overlaps Dean’s pleading and rare vulnerable stance a few feet away for a second until Sam blinks again.

At Sam’s physical shudder and straining muscle lockup, Dean seems to deflate even further. He needs to tread carefully, he knows this, and he knows all too well how much of a minefield his brother’s big brain can be.

“God, Sam, I’m the one who is sorry. I’m sorry I left you. I’m sorry I let you get hurt. I’m sorry I ever did anything to make you feel this afraid in your own home.”

“’S your home too,” Sam immediately offers in response with a small voice.

Dean stares at Sam with concerned and wide eyes for another moment, stunned into silence, before he swallows roughly and takes a deep breath.

“Not without you, kiddo, not without you walking the halls and emptying the fridge and warming the couches with me.”

Sam’s throat goes dry and he feels his chest tighten. He automatically looks at the floor again. He will get too overwhelmed if he keeps looking at Dean’s rare expressive and open gaze. He was already feeling himself beginning to lose his lockdown on his emotions, he needs to now clamp it shut before it is too late. He cannot really be hearing what Dean is saying, he must be mistaken in some way…

Dean needs him again. Is that what he is saying? Maybe Sam is just imagining it. Maybe he is imagining this whole thing. Maybe it is just a dream. He has been out of it so much lately… Maybe he is just in another mind-trip. His brain has been plenty willing to supply those these days. Maybe it is his mind trying to convince him to recover and save itself in a last-ditch effort. Maybe this is just his conscience’s last attempt at self-preservation.

He thought he was done. He thought it was over. He had convinced himself it was. And here was Dean again, telling him the opposite and pulling him back from the edge once more, like he always does. But they have changed so much, both of them. That cannot be what Dean is implying. Sam must be reading this wrong. Is he just cherry-picking from this what he really wants to hear deep down? How many times can he keep bouncing back like Dean is asking? Isn’t his body just giving up this time and making the choice for him?

Sam doesn’t realize Dean has moved until he sees him kneeling a few feet away out of the corner of his eye. Sam’s head shifts towards his brother but he keeps his eyes lowered and focused on the monochromatic floor. He needs to keep his gaze on the drab gray color. He needs to control himself again; but he is just so tired… No, he needs to get a damn grip.

Automatically, Sam’s breathing picks up again. The ache from his shoulder and throat and chest shoots through his veins in a fresh wave of pain. There, his body is deciding for him. He can just let it run its course for once. He does not have to choose, his body is doing it for him. Sam tries to take a controlled breath but it feels like there is not enough air in the world. He feels his eyes begin to dampen for some reason.

“Sammy, what can I do? How do I help you?” Dean asks softly, sadly observing the tears beginning to form in the corner of Sam’s eyes.

The gentleness and proximity of his brother’s voice surprises him again, and he can almost hear Dean's heart and resolve breaking. Sam's chest is stinging and his vision is getting fuzzy at the corners; whether from tears or blood loss, he is not sure anymore. This whole scenario is making his head spin. Dean _never_ asks for advice like this, not really. It is tearing at Sam’s insides to hear his brother sounding this lost. This never happens. It is so different, this time around. So different…

Sam cannot reroute this back on track. He has nothing to offer to fix this. He cannot get _himself_ back on track. Not this time. He is losing control of his emotions and his physical functioning and most likely his consciousness. His body is failing and his breaths are wheezing and the decision has made for him, there is nothing he can do about that now.

“I…I’m sorry, Dean,” Sam forces the words out.

He clears his throat and tries to sound stronger and makes himself look up to meet Dean’s overly worried gaze, “I don’t know… this time.”

His voice is shaking but he has no control over his body anymore. Sam is sure somewhere in the back of his chaotic brain that this may be some form of panic attack or something along those lines. He has had similar things happen to him before, but there is nothing he can do about that now. Frankly, it scares the crap out of him, but he cannot do anything about it. His body is deciding for him. His vision is stinging and thick and it feels like the air is trying to fight its way out of his body. Breathing is becoming a hassle. Talking hurts, but he has to do it, for Dean.

“I-I don’t… I’m not sure if there is anything. Y-You don’t… don’t n-need me… anymore, I’m-m… I think I’m… done. I don’t know what else-”

Sam swallows roughly and squeezes his eyes tightly shut to keep the tears from falling. He is losing control, fast, and he needs to try and make Dean understand.

“Don’t know what-”

Dean needs to _understand._

“What else there is to do, for me-”

“Sam…” Sam hears the breath leave Dean’s lips with a slight punch of newfound concern and it makes Sam flinch harder and squeeze his eyes shut until they hurt.

Everything hurts. He needs to get the words out now, now before he cannot anymore.

“I’m sorry, Dean… _really_ I am, but-”

“But nothing, Sam,” Dean interrupts firmly, a sudden resolve coloring his tone, “But nothing, not now, not _ever._ You think, what, that I’m just _done_ with you? Is that it? You are just another body I picked up on a case and had my time with but now it's over?”

Sam winces slightly at the harshness of Dean’s tone. Sam knows, logically, that this is worry causing Dean to get worked up. It has to be. His heart pumps fear into him and his brain throws images of black eyes into the forefront of his mind and fills his ears with the chilling melodic tone of his brother’s cold demonic voice echoing through the halls. Sam cannot tense anymore and his back is pressed firmly against the wall. He has nowhere to go. He knows he should not feel the need to go anywhere. He knows this is his brother. He knows his brother is just trying to help.

Sam slowly peels his eyelids open to glance at his older brother. Dean’s shoulders are tense and his eyes are a flaming bright green. Sam cannot make his tongue work to form words. He can only hug himself impossibly tighter and squint against the heavily burning gaze of his older brother, his caretaker, damnation, and salvation all wrapped into one.

After another beat of silence, Dean seems to almost rock back on his heels. His shoulders drop and he sets one knee down so he is kneeling low to the ground a few feet away. Something changes in his eyes and Sam tries to follow the internal emotional battle his brother is going through, but he also feels another migraine prickling at the base of his skull, turning the corners of his vision gray, and tears stinging the back of his eyes.

Dean looks down at the floor for a moment, seeming to gather strength, before he clears his throat and looks up at his kid brother once more. The slight air of surprise and rage is suddenly gone, leaving only a sense of slight fear and strong determination. Dean's jaw sets in that certain way where Sam knows his brother is in deep thought, and not just strategic planning, but true introspection and speculation. This is a look the demon never knew, never could have made if he tried. This is a look that Sam knows is only his brother, and nothing else.

“Sam, you and I have both died plenty of times,” Dean’s voice is smoother now but Sam can still detect the underlying strain of concern in his brother’s tone, “We have run that race again and again. But we did it together. Heaven, hell, purgatory, _all of it_ , we have had our fair share. But Sam, every time, and I mean _every time_ … You were there with me on the other side of the shit storm. And dammit Sam, if that isn’t the only thing keeping me going at the end of the day. I was in deep, Sam, way deep, deeper than ever before. I wasn’t just soulless or anything like that, I was _gone,_ man. And yet, here I am now, as _me_ as I can get, on the other side of it all, with you, like always... But Sammy, man… now I need you to do the same thing.”

Sam cannot breathe, and Dean does not look away.

“I will be honest; you are scaring the shit out of me, Sammy. I understand it, of course I do, hell I personally have trouble looking at myself in the mirror lately. But at the end of the day, Sam, on the day we can both wake up and realize all of that crap is actually _over…_ I need you there that morning with me. You _have_ to be there. Because if you are not there to face the next day with me, then dammit Sam, I am never going to see tomorrow. Do you hear me? There is no sense of me being _done_ with you, alright? That can never happen. You are my brother, and that is always the number one most important thing. I know that you are going through some bad stuff right now. Hell, as far as I am concerned, you are taking it like a champ when you have had to deal with all this on your own. But Sam, stop carrying it all by _yourself,_ man. Let me help."

Sam feels like he might have passed out already. He cannot remember a time when his brother has said this much… this much emotional _stuff_ to him while he was also conscious. The tone of confusion must show in his eyes because Dean takes another breath and keeps going.

“And damn kid, _you_ did that. I would still be walking around with black eyes and a shitty arm tattoo if you were not around. So _“don’t need you anymore”_ …? Sammy, I would still be _dead_ if it weren’t for you. I wouldn’t be _me_ if it weren’t for you. So how the hell can you think I would not need you around anymore?”

Sam can feel himself getting lighter. Maybe it is Dean’s speech, maybe it is blood-loss. Either way, he feels sleepy. This is a different tired, this is not the soul-deep gut-wrenching exhaustion he felt a few moments ago. No, he just feels like he needs _rest._ But it is different. Maybe because “sleepy” just entails that he needs to close his eyes for a bit and then he will wake up and be better.

Sam feels… he feels good, cleansed, almost. Air is still abandoning his lungs, but he can feel all of his strained muscles once more. He can feel his body again. He feels like he could breathe, maybe, in a little bit. Just not right now. But there will be an _“in a little bit,”_ because Dean will make sure it happens. And Dean is right here, talking and laying all his cards on the table. And a demon would not do that. Not like his brother would. And this look on his brother’s face right now is one hundred percent Dean. This is his brother talking with him, pleading with him.

_So yes_ , Sam thinks, there will be an _“in a little bit.”_ His body might be fighting that idea, but Sam does not care anymore. Dean is strong and healthy and he can fight, he can fight for whatever he wants. And right now, that is Sam.

Sam feels his lips pull into the ghost of a smile, the second one in over a month.

“I’m sorry,” He whispers with a small grin before he lets the darkness tunneling in around his vision overtake him.

He can see the look of recognition on Dean’s face as his brother lunges towards him to catch him before he hits the ground. His brother always could read him like an open book, down to the look he makes when he is about to lose consciousness.

Sam lets his coiled muscles fall and his aching body slump forward limply into his brother’s waiting and supportive arms.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You guys have no idea how much the feedback helps, for real. I'm debating doing a little epilogue thingy about Sam waking up, so let me know if that is something of interest!   
> As always, feedback and the like are appreciated. (Is Dean too OOC? I always have more trouble with him, he's such an emotionally repressed SOB, poor baby...)   
> Love and appreciate ya'll!


	3. Strong

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You guys are all the best, for real. Thank you so much for all of the feedback and love you send, it honestly makes me love to write and give you guys more to read. It is a great cycle.  
> As per request, here is a small epilogue thingy!

When Sam regains consciousness, he is in Dean’s room. His eyes are still closed, but he can tell his location because the mattress is far more comfortable than his own. He feels like he is sinking slightly, encompassed in warmth. It is nice. It is different.

Sam feels… rested. He feels okay.

That is a nice feeling too. It has been a while.

He lets his eyes open slowly and he squints slightly against the light coming from the lamp on the nightstand. His eyelids are heavy and sticky but he makes himself blink a few more times, making the blurry edges of his vision recede some. His head is killing him. He cannot remember why for the life of him. The fact that he is in Dean’s room also should be setting off some kind of warning bells in the logical part of his brain, but for some reason he is in this weird stasis of _calm._

It has been a while.

It is nice actually.

It would be nicer if this headache would go away. Sam is sure the light is contributing to the throbbing and he automatically shifts his hand in hopes to turn it off. As soon as his fingers twitch and his wrist leaves his chest, a pain shoots from his shoulder down to his fingertips and then back the up his arm and deep into his chest and upper back.

Sam’s eyes squeeze shut and he hisses in a breath before letting his hand rest against his sternum once more. This ache in his shoulder is not as new, but the white-hot pain definitely is. He grits his teeth together and forces himself to take a few breaths and wait for the throbbing hurt to fade slightly. His chest feels sore and like his skin is too big for his bones.

What the hell happened? He has felt this type of tenderness up and down his ribs before, when he has gotten thrown against gravestones or down a staircase or even had some kind of fit or fatigue or _seizure_...

Sam’s thoughts stop there and he gasps in a surprised breath. The dull orange glow behind his eyelids is gone with a click and he opens his eyes wide in what could be fear or surprise or any of the conflicting emotions swirling in his head.

“Sammy?”

The careful and curious but majorly optimistic tone almost makes him smile wide enough to hurt his cheeks. The corner of Sam’s mouth tips up and he shifts his head slightly against the pillow, aware of the tender muscles in his neck and the base of his skull protesting the movement.

Dean is standing beside his bed, looking worn from what must be lack of sleep from watching over Sam and worrying, but also painfully hopeful. He moves his hand away from the small lamp on the nightstand slowly, eyes never leaving his brother and waiting for the kid to flinch in reaction.

Sam waits for it too. The muscles in his other hand resting lower against his stomach flex minutely, but other than that he remains still. Maybe he is too tired to move. He feels rested. Maybe he just did not need to flinch. His lips curl into a full smile. Sam could care less if he looks like an idiot. He is getting better. Dean took care of him, like he always does, even put his gigantic body in his own special bed he always brags about. Dean looks like he has been worrying over Sam since he passed out. Dean looks like… like he cares.

Sam remembers. The memories flood back into the forefront of his mind. Now that he has returned to the land of the living, he remembers all of it. He remembers the pain he was causing himself, the pain he was causing _Dean_. He remembers his brother’s speech. He remembers wanting to just let his body wear itself into the grave.

He remembers all the _pain_ , and not just his own.

Dean watches Sam’s refreshing small smile slowly fade. His kid brother’s eyes flicker up from where they fell to rest and gaze off across the room in remembrance and slight fondness to meet Dean’s own. Dean can see the fatigue there, the _guilt,_ but he can also see that spark again that was missing before. There is something in Sam’s eyes that was not there prior to the kid going basically comatose for a day.

Dean had taken care of him the best he could with his brother providing to be little more than dead weight in his arms. He patched up his brother’s wounds, new and old, and tried his best to reset the giant’s shoulder and hold it there with the sling he retrieved from Sam’s barren room. Dean kept his brother as hydrated as possible and even hooked him up to some saline he found in the bunker’s supply of medical equipment. He was going to take Sam to the hospital if the kid did not wake up soon, but he is glad Sam woke up on his own terms in a comfortable environment instead of having random doctors poke and prod him in an unfamiliar place. Dean tried to make him as comfortable as possible. The kid deserved it.

Dean can see the guilt burning in Sam’s wide, expressive eyes.

Sam licks his dry lips and takes in a shallow breath, hoping to make his already weak voice audible.

“Dean, I’m-”

“Don’t, Sammy.” Dean shakes his head slightly and watches his kid brother.

Sam sighs deeply and winces slightly, the muscles in his abdomen still tender and protesting the movement. His eyes drop from Dean’s and he swallows dryly, nodding once.

Dean watches the internal emotional battle Sam is fighting before giving a small sigh and pulling up the chair that has been permanently by Sam’s bedside during this whole ordeal. He sits down and looks his younger brother over once. He is again hoping Sam would just take the lead, without the guilt burning the kid’s insides, and do the consoling for both of them. But, Dean knows his job is not yet done.

Sam may be a little better, but he is still weak and fragile. Dean knows he needs to help his little brother recover and build him back up mentally, physically, _emotionally_ , but mostly that _he_  needs to be the one to do the work. It is his turn to take the lead. It is not a job anymore, taking care of his younger brother, it never has been. it is just instinct.

“You have nothing to be sorry for, Sam.” Dean says the sentence slowly, making sure Sam hears every word clearly.

Sam bristles slightly and blinks rapidly in surprise. His eyes flash up to Dean’s thoughtful and concentrated face and he stares for a few seconds. Dean sighs lightly and meets his brother’s brittle but hopeful gaze. Dean searches the kid’s emotional puppy-dog eyes for another silent second before speaking again.

“I’ll make you a deal, alright?”

Sam does not blink but the fingers of his free hand twitch again and he nods. Dean nods in return and swallows to recollect his thoughts and find his voice once more.

“No one plays the blame game. Not for this. Not anymore. I know we have both been through a lot lately, and we both should have gotten the ball rolling on this sooner, but now we both came out of this on the other side. We are both here now, when it is important. And we can both get strong again because kid, let’s face it, you are skin and bones, and I have been pacing and nervous-sweating enough the past few days for the both of us and the rest of the state combined.”

Dean watches a flicker of amusement cross Sam’s vulnerable gaze and he counts that as another step towards a win. It is more than he would have gotten out of his brother a few days ago. Dean lets the side of his mouth quirk up in acknowledgment and thanks that Sam seems to be willing to do this, or is at least on the same track as him.

“So here is what we do,” Dean continues evenly, feeling like he is not interrupting Sam in any way, but more that his younger brother is actually waiting for him to continue, for him to help and give guidance.

“We get some real food in you. We get your arm healed up. We do some training. Hell, we get you physical therapy if we have to, there has got to be someone out there. We get you strong. We get the both of us strong. And then we go whichever way the wind takes us.”

Dean watches Sam’s rare but understandably vulnerable face carefully as he talks. Sam feels his heart beating faster, not out of fear, but out of hope. Dean wants to help, he wants to make this better. He wants to make _Sam_ better.

His brother keeps saying _we_ and it makes him feel so weightless and _good_ he almost does not know what to do about it. Dean’s eyes are bright and confident, and it makes Sam’s heart settle into a comfortable rhythm, a painless one.

We, we, _we_.

Sam cannot help but smile lightly.

Dean watches the small grin curl his brother’s mouth and that spark that has been gone for so long burns in his kid brother’s eyes.

“Deal?” Dean asks.

Sam can hear all of the emotions in Dean’s voice; the fear, the hope, worry, humor, determination, the _fight_.

Dean is strong again. Sam made him strong. Dean could be stronger. So could Sam. They both need work. They both ignored that fact before this. Dean took the initiative. Sam is grateful. He was too tired to do it, but now…

“Deal,” Sam replies, voice soft and tired but strong from underlying security.

Now they can both become stronger again. Now, Sam knows Dean can help, that he _wants_ to help. Sam knows he will still cringe at times when his brother turns a corner too fast or places an unexpected hand on his shoulder. He knows his heart will still play tricks on him and pump fearful adrenaline into his veins when he has to walk down that certain hallway in the bunker. He knows it will be difficult if and when his brother is turned the other way for one reason or another and is wearing a maroon colored shirt.

But Sam also knows now, looking at his brother, that he can truly tell the difference between demon and not. This Dean, the real one he helped recover, this one has a fire deep down that is making him sturdy and determined. This Dean has that one look Sam has never seen anyone else be able to replicate, human or otherwise, one that is motivated and concerned and charismatic all in one. This Dean is the real one.

Sam can tell the difference now.

His shoulder hurts and his head still throbs, but he can see through the pain well enough to notice the specific spark in Dean’s sharp green eyes.

This Dean is strong.

This Dean cares about Sam.

This Dean is his brother.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Much love to all ya'll. Thank you for reading if you are here with me at the end. You guys make my world go round and help me want to continue these stories.  
> Hit me up if you have any ideas for future works, and hopefully I will catch you all in the next piece :)  
> Much love,  
> Brie.


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